


The Sculptures Lover

by yellowbeezz



Series: The Sculpturess and the Duchess [1]
Category: Historical - Fandom
Genre: Art, F/F, Fantasy, Fluff, Gay, Love, Past Lives, Sculpture, artist, romancce, upper class
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:26:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22127884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowbeezz/pseuds/yellowbeezz
Summary: A talented artist is struggling to make meet ends as a woman until she has an interesting meeting with an aristocratic Lady who wants something more out of the world.
Series: The Sculpturess and the Duchess [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1592821





	The Sculptures Lover

Prologue:

The sculpture gallery was always quiet in the morning, only history whispering through the faint drafts between the creaking windowsills. It was an old workshop that had been donated by the famous artist Roseanna. She had proposed very clearly in her will that her sculptures were never to be moved, not one inch and it had stayed that way for a hundred or more years. The floor was stained with plaster and faded poetry was written along the walls, it had been a loving home and a loved studio to the Sculpture till she died. 

When the small wooden door opened there was always one impatient girl waiting outside with shorn off, boyish hair and the smell of paints hanging off her sweeping skirts and baggy jumpers. She waited every morning to rush in as though she was checking something before commandeering one of the plush white chaise lounges’. She would cross her legs, pull her sketchbook out and draw the sculptures till it was closing time. She drew with softness, the pencil hanging between her fingers. She smiled and sighed with each sketch. 

She often stopped and just stared. You could often see her telling the other visitors facts about the artists and the lover that lived with her, sometimes shedding a tear that dropped onto her sketchbook. She told them stories of love and passion, of the artist’s hardship and the beautiful muse that changed it all. The visitors often wouldn’t listen, focusing on the cold lists of facts nailed to the walls. But those who did would look at the art with mirrored eyes, almost as if they could see the love in each marble stand. 

At closing time the girl would stand, whisper a smell goodbye and leave with her notebook in hand. She’d offer the night security a sandwich and would waltz off. The security guard often left shutting the windows to last as the artist liked to catch one last look at the sculptured past. 

************************************************************************************************************************************************************************  
The sculptures workshop was untidy, plaster splattered across the floor and walls, loose aprons hung up messily with stains of paint and marble, glue and blood. There were plaster casts sat on top of tables, chairs, and the floor alongside the Marble statues that accompanied them. There were homemade clay vases filled with plants lining the windowsills and art utensils scattered like roses on a theatre night. There was one clean one with a cursive note pinned to the top: “Do not use! This is your dress apron!” And a bowl filled with water for plastered hands.

The sculpture was in the middle of her work, holding a detailed sketch in her hand as she squinted at the statue she’d made. It was a commission for a Duke, his wife portrayed as Aphrodite for a birthday present; she adored the Greeks. It was unusual, present commissions for women you see her work was more for the churches, of for men who desired themselves as Gods. But she was grateful for the work and the Duke’s insistence that it should be made by a woman, for work as a female sculpture was hard to come by. The men simply insisted that women were not intelligent or strong enough to wield the utensils needed. But the artist never heeded them.

The artist wiped her hands on her apron and set her sketchbook down, she had another appointment with a client who had money and with business barely happening the meeting had to be a success. The money was needed to run her small shop, if not it was back into servant life for her. She’d already spent three lifetimes doing that, one more and she’d be done. Even immortals get sick of work like that.

She washed her hands, sighed and switched her aprons. Practising a fake smile on her face and checking her reflection in the mirror. Yes, she looked enough like a boy she thought. Maybe she should dust some more paint on her face to mask the feminine features, her arching eyebrows and curved nose. She was small and petite meaning any figure could be easily hidden under an apron. But her eyes were doe-like and her movements too soft and airy to be a man. But what could she do but try to pretend?

The client was already waiting in the front of the shop, standing silently in a blue gown that was speckled with golden embroidered flowers and lace frilled sleeves. It hugged her at her wise and blossomed at her bosom. The skirt swung wide and reminded the artist of an upside-down teacup with its rigid round movement. Her blonde hair was curled and pinned and flowers sat like a crown above the ringlets. When she moved to face the sculpture it was as though time had simply dissipated into the heavens and there stood the only figure that mattered. A countenance so soft and round, with cheeks that rivalled cupids and striking blue eyes that were brighter than any shade of blue she’d used to paint. 

“I-I.” The sculpture stuttered pulling at the hair behind her ears, plaster sticking to the ends, her brown hair often had streaks of white as though she had lived long enough already. But customers weren’t usually women unaccompanied, and if so they certainly were never this beautiful.

“You expected me to be a man,” The woman smiles, “I believe the feeling is mutual.” She reaches out her hand as she would a gentleman and the artist takes it and presses a soft kiss before she can stop herself, her blush started to grow into the tendrils of her hair.

“My name is Roseanna madam, what can I offer you?” The artists ask, turning around quickly to hide behind her counter. The shop floor itself was as cluttered as the workshop, with as many pieces slotted in as could fit. Roseanna had to make sure that she could offer more. It was a simple room with a simple marble counter between the door and the workshop. There was barely enough room for the mysterious guest to pace but she still managed, trailing across the shop as her dress caught on the cracked tiles and dirty floor.

“If I’m to be honest, and forward with you Madam Artist I am bored with life. As a lady, I cannot live. If I am to play then no one will marry and I will be penniless but if I stay as a Lady I fear I will go mad.” She stops at this and trials her fingers across the sculpture of Cupid, holding his arrow in the air. “Since the only thing I am good at is looking beautiful I’d like to be your muse if you let me.”

“What do you mean my muse?” Roseanna asks, “I don’t need anything but money right now Madam and I don’t mean to be rude but if you cannot offer me that then I cannot other you anything back.” The Lady stops and sighs softly and stands away from the marble with a resigned look pulling at her eyes. 

“Madam you are right and I can see within your eyes a cage. But I am fortunate enough to have freedom even if it is a fight every day, I cannot risk that simply because you’re bored.” 

The lady lurched forward and clasped Roseanna’s hand over the counter, nearly knocking over the inkstand that stood there for contracts. “I would like to pay you, handsomely, to make a collection of sculptures. I will display them as an art exhibition to help you acquire a reputable reputation as a female sculpture and I will offer to pay the rent of this hospitable shop until they are finished. “The words rush out her in a flurry and she fixates her gaze on the artist as she catches up.  
“You would create an entire exhibition for me?” She chokes out, struggling to maintain her voice.

“It would give me a reason to live and I think, you a living.” At this, the lady glances around the run-down shop with a distasteful stare. “Will you agree to this?

“I’ll do it.”


End file.
